In the middle of winter, while students stood frozen in the station clutching their textbooks, desperately cramming until the last moment, I spotted a high school girl who seemed dazed and distant. Regardless of her grade, she wasn't touching her phone—her gaze was fixed far off into space. Maybe something unpleasant had happened to her. Driven by the utterly despicable idea of making her suffer even more and erasing those memories, I locked onto her. I miscalculated my positioning and ended up approaching from the front, but the distance wasn't too close—still manageable, so I pushed forward aggressively. Because she was mentally absent and spaced out, she was easy prey. At the first big sway of the train, I casually brushed the back of my hand against her inner thigh—effortlessly succeeding. Then, I noticed she started glancing back furtively. Looking in that direction, I clearly saw two fellow molesters. So we were after the same target. She could only glare at them with her eyes, unable to physically resist their advances. To us, that was practically a "yes." So, with full force, I boldly extended my middle finger and pressed hard from the front. Lately, girls often wear black panties, so I had planned accordingly, but in the end, she was going commando. I thought she might be wearing two layers, but it was bare skin. Her untrimmed pubic hair transmitted through my hand, stirring up a strangely nostalgic feeling. The schoolgirl quietly endured, her eyes fixed on my forearm moving back and forth. Even as she pressed down on her skirt, she couldn't shake off my already-invaded hand. The dampness between her legs clearly told me she knew she had to endure until she got off the train. And just as expected, she disembarked. I watched her retreating figure, hoping this incident had helped relieve her worries, even just a little.